by J. V. Jones
They’d just gotten into the harbor this morning, and already Nabber had quite a stash going—a good one, too. A little heavy on the silver, perhaps, but with a fair amount of precious stones to make up for the lack of gold.
Tawl had gone looking for errant knights. The captain of the Shrimp Scourer—a wide man name o’ Fermcatch—had said that Marls had recently been inundated with knights looking to gain passage to the Far South. Apparently they’d been leaving the knighthood in droves since old Tyren had got them fighting Kylock’s battles in the north. Anyway, the moment the ship docked, Tawl had gone in search of a certain establishment where it was rumored that knights could be found. Nabber had the distinct feeling that if Tawl did find any knights, he’d find trouble as well.
Which was why he was currently on the way to the Seaman’s Fancy himself. Tawl might be brave and lethal with a sword, but he lost all his good sense when the name Tyren was mentioned. He had a soft spot as big as a turnip patch for the leader of the knights. Wouldn’t hear a word against him, and Nabber knew more than anyone that the man was as good as a rogue.
“’Scuse me, sir,” said Nabber, tapping a passerby on the shoulder and casually pocketing him while he did so. “Could you tell me the quickest way to the Seaman’s Fancy?”
“No,” said the stranger. “You are too young to be drinking. Go home and learn your prayers.”
“Aah, well, I’d be there now, sir, if it wasn’t for the fact that my mother’s taken my prayer book with her to the Seaman’s Fancy.”
“The only women in the Seaman’s Fancy are prostitutes.”
“All the more reason for me to pray for her, then.”
The man tugged on the earflaps of his hat. He was beaten—and he knew it. “Straight down this road. Turn left at Pickling Street, left again at Salting Street, right on Preserve. You can’t miss it.”
“Thank you for your kindness, sir,” said Nabber, bowing and walking away. “I’ll be sure to mention you in my prayers.”
Nabber followed the man’s directions. He still didn’t like Marls, but its people were definitely a challenge to his wits.
The journey here, however, had been a challenge to his guts. Never sailed in his life before. Never wanted to. First couple of days were murder. He tried everything from sitting blindfolded in the crow’s nest to crouching barefoot in the hold. Nothing worked on his seasickness until Captain Fermcatch—a man who was as good as he was hairy—suggested that Nabber take the wheel. Well, after that it was plain sailing all the way. Being in charge made all the difference. Took to it like a fish to water. Might even be a sailor himself one day. A pirate! That’s what he’d be. A pocketer of the high seas.
Yes, there was a lot to be said for sailing. For one thing, it was most definitely better than riding. Tawl had said that they would only spend one night in Marls and ride north first thing tomorrow. Nabber wasn’t looking forward to that at all. Riding meant horses, and horses meant grief. In fact, that was where Jack was now—out finding two nags worthy of purchase. They were all supposed to meet up later by the quay, buy the nags in question, exchange any information they’d managed to glean about the war, and then find a place to stay.
“’Scuse me, madam,” said Nabber, stopping yet another person. No pocketing this time—the woman only looked good for a few coppers. “Is this Preserve Street?” Nabber couldn’t read, so he was forced to rely on the kindness of strangers.
“This is indeed Preserve,” said the woman, “but a boy as young as you should be home learning his prayers.”
Nabber bowed and walked on. Very strange place Marls.
The Seaman’s Fancy was not as much a building as it was a door. Nabber would have walked right past it if it hadn’t been for the smell of ale and sailors wafting from around the frame. The building the door was located in was derelict; the shutters had been torn from the windows, the paint long peeled, the top floor was open to the skies, and the lower masonry looked fit to crumble. The only part of the building that was in any state of repair was the door: blue for the sea, bloodstained from squabbling sailors, and emblazoned with a crude likeness of a naked woman to attract the fancy of passersby.
Knocking didn’t seem in order, so Nabber walked right in. He found himself on a badly lit staircase leading down. Fatty, acrid tallow smoke wafted from below. Nabber descended with caution.
He emerged in the corner of a low-ceilinged cellar. The place was sparsely furnished with a handful of upturned beer barrels and three-legged stools. The cobblestone floor was damp and the wood-braced walls were sprouting. The few customers there were looked dangerous. Nabber spotted Tawl straightaway. He was talking to a large, dark-haired man. Neither man seemed especially agitated, so Nabber took a seat near the bar and prepared to bide his time.
“Yes,” Gravia said, his voice low and harsh. “There was a battalion of knights on the field. Tyren accompanied Kedrac to Bren.”
Tawl’s lips felt dry. He licked them. “Did they take part in the slaughter?”
Gravia’s expression didn’t falter. “Why do you think I’m here today?”
So they had. Tawl leant back against the wall and regarded his old friend Gravia. He hardly looked a day older than when Tawl had seen him last; the dark hair was as glossy as ever, the handsome, angular face still smooth.
Nearly seven years ago they’d parted. Valdis had enjoyed a warm spring that year. The world was full of hope and he and Gravia were full of dreams. They had plans to meet up in summer and travel together to the Far South in search of holy relics or a burning cause. They never made it. The trip home changed everything. One sight of the burnt cottage and all promises were sundered.
Now this man, this knight whom Tawl respected as a peer and loved as a friend, sat across the table and told him he was leaving the order.
Tawl had spent three years at Gravia’s side. He knew him well. Of all the knights that gained the second circle that fateful spring, no one was more dedicated than him. To find him here, in this seedy tavern, arranging swift passage to Leiss, was a profound shock to Tawl. It made his heart ache.
Tawl glanced at Gravia’s right arm. His circles were well covered, just like his own. “Will you ever come back?” he asked.
A bitter smile flashed across Gravia’s face. “No. As long as Tyren is head of the order, I will not count myself a knight. I was there in Halcus when Kylock ordered the slaughter of innocent women and children—Tyren didn’t raise a finger to stop him.”
Tawl looked into Gravia’s dark brown eyes. “I can’t believe that of Tyren.”
“You’ve spent the last six years with your head in the sand. You don’t know what he’s capable of.”
Hearing Gravia’s words brought back an echo of another similar conversation, many weeks old. “Tyren’s a bad man, Tawl,” Nabber had said the night an expertly aimed arrow sent them traveling through the night. Tawl swallowed hard. It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be. Angry at himself for doubting Tyren for even an instant, he cried, “Tyren was always a friend to me.”
Gravia made a hard little sound in his throat. “Friend. He was never your friend, Tawl.”
“He brought me to Valdis, gave me free training. He saved my life.”
“After all these years you still don’t know?” Gravia shook his head. The edge in his voice changed the nature of the air between them. It became clear, taut, charged like before a storm. “No one ever told you?”
Tawl brought his whole body forward. “Told me what?”
“Told you that Tyren sold your services to the man with the most gold.” Gravia, seeming to regret his harsh words, put a hand on Tawl’s arm.
Tawl shook it off. “What do you mean?”
“I mean the only reason why Tyren sent you to Bevlin was because he was paid handsomely to do so. Bevlin tried for months to get Tyren to send him a knight. Tyren refused until Bevlin offered him gold.” Gravia sighed. All the force in his large and well-toned body ebbed away, leaving a tired and disillusioned man in
its wake. “Tyren never believed in the wiseman’s cause. He never believed in you. Gold was—and is—his only motive.”
“You’re lying.”
“No, Tawl. What do you think I did that spring we parted? Tyren sent me to Bevlin to pick up the payment. Five hundred pieces of gold I carried home.”
Tawl closed his eyes. Gravia’s words were blades in his heart. Everything he held dear was a sham. Seven years he had lived with the pain of losing his family, and during that time his one, his only, comfort was knowing that Tyren had believed in him. Only now there was no belief—just a dirty little transaction where his services were bought and sold.
Slowly he began to shake his head. “No. Not this.” The pressure in his chest was unbearable. He dug his fingertips into the wood of the table. “Dear God, not this.” A lump formed in his throat, cutting down his words to a rasped whisper. Everything was tainted now. Every action he had taken since his sisters’ deaths had been paid for with gold. He felt dirty, violated. Dropping his head to the table, Tawl tried hard to stop his shoulders from shaking.
“Get away from him, you!” shrieked a familiar voice. “You leave him alone. Go tell your lies to someone else.”
Tawl looked up to see Nabber pulling at Gravia’s arm. “Stop it, Nabber,” he said.
Gravia stood up. “I’m sorry, Tawl. As Borc is my witness, I never meant to hurt you.”
Tawl swallowed hard. “Gravia, I think Nabber’s right. You’d better go.”
“But—”
“You knew. You knew and you never told me. We were like brothers—you and I.” As soon as the words were out, Tawl regretted them. The pain on Gravia’s face was unmistakable. The deed of seven years back was like a dying man’s curse: it corrupted beyond the grave. Gravia was young, they both were, and together they had looked up to Tyren as if he were a god.
“Gravia, I’m—” The words died on Tawl’s lips. Gravia was already on the other side of the room, climbing the stairs.
Tawl watched him go.
Old pain merged with new pain and settled close against his heart. He would never see his friend again. Tawl sighed. He felt very tired. He had made a bad thing worse. He’d not only lost Tyren today, but he’d lost Gravia as well.
There was no end to what a man could bear.
After a moment, he stood up. “Come on, Nabber. Let’s go.” There was only one thing left to him now: traveling to Bren to rescue Melli.
Tavalisk had just come from supervising the packing of his stash. It was all due to be removed tomorrow: half was going to a little town just south of Rorn, and half was going to a house on Kirtish Street. The archbishop’s mind, while not totally at ease, was now in midrepose. No one would get their greasy little hands on his treasures after tomorrow. No one.
Browsing through room after room of gems, holy icons, and gold had calmed Tavalisk considerably. If things did come to the worst—and the way things looked in the north at the moment they certainly might—he at least could be assured of a comfortable retirement. Kylock and Baralis were dangerous men individually, but together they were proving unstoppable. At the moment their empire was restricted to the north, but who could tell what would happen after spring. Once they took Ness it would be so easy for them to turn their sights south to Camlee.
Oh, the south would arm Camlee—eventually—but cities like Marls, Toolay, and Falport simply didn’t realize just how great a threat Kylock’s armies could be. The south had spent centuries scorning the north. It was considered backward, its people barbarians, its cities primitive citadels, and its policies no concern of the south. Tavalisk rubbed his chubby chin. Such thinking could well seal their fate.
A dozen roasted sheeps’ hearts were slowly congealing on a platter. Tavalisk pushed them aside. He didn’t have the stomach for them.
The archbishop crossed over to the windows and made sure there was no light peeping through. Next, he walked to the door and turned the key. He had brought back only one box from his hideaway, and he opened it now in the safety of a locked and shuttered room. He couldn’t risk anyone else moving it. Its contents were more precious and damning than gold.
Off came the lid. Books, scrolls, and manuscripts gleamed dully like old skin. The smell fluttered, as if on moth’s wings, straight up to the archbishop’s nose. Memories scurried across his consciousness the moment the scent was named. Rapascus. These papers were his lifework. The lifework of the greatest religious scholar of the last five hundred years.
All miscredited to a young, aspiring clergyman known as Father Tavalisk.
Tavalisk remembered the journey across the Northern Ranges. It was early spring. Cold winds blew from the west and the snow was wet underfoot. The caravan he traveled with was poorly equipped and they had to stop every few minutes to clear paths. Altogether the crossing took them a month. In summer it would have taken a week. Tavalisk, who had paid the minstrels well for the privilege of joining their wagon train, spent most of his time in the back of his covered cart, reading all the papers he had stolen.
By the time they made it to Lairston, he knew Rapascus’ lifework as well as if it were his own. The great wiseman was dead, his house had been burnt to the ground, there was nothing left of him but his books. And once the word got out, everyone would assume those books had perished with him. Indeed, Tavalisk intended to be the first to spread the word. He’d already practiced his lie: “Such a tragedy. Rapascus spent the last twenty years in mystical research, and it was all consumed by the flames. Nothing was saved.”
Then, if the question happened to arise as to what business he had with the great man, he would shrug humbly and say, “Oh nothing. I am engaged in a little religious work, and I sought Rapascus’ opinion.”
Three nights Tavalisk spent in Lairston preparing his tale. On the third night he met Baralis.
Lairston nestled at the foot of the Northern Ranges. It was a small mining town, boasting a handful of inns and a blacksmith. Situated directly below one of the few passes to the north, it did a fair business in travel. Tavalisk was eating alone in the dining hall of the Last Refuge when in walked a man from the cold. The wind swept ahead of him and the snow flurried behind. Tall and striking, dressed in black, he waited less than a minute to be served. The tavern-maid, a silly girl with a conspicuous bosom and eyes inclined to wink, showed the stranger to a seat next to the fire. Tavalisk was sitting on the other side of the great hearth and listened as the man requested dinner and a room.
“Have you come to take the pass, sir?” asked the tavern-maid.
The man nodded.
The girl waved an arm Tavalisk’s way. “This gentleman has just come down from the mountain. He says conditions in the pass are bad.” With that, she left them, bobbing a crude curtsey and promising to be back.
The stranger stripped off his gloves. Tavalisk noticed his hands were scarred, the skin warped and reddened around the knuckles. They sat in silence, the fire cracking between them, the candlelight flickering above. A vague feeling of unease came over Tavalisk as he sat watching the stranger. The silence they shared had a predatory feel, and after a few minutes Tavalisk felt compelled to speak.
“The snow is soft and the winds are high. It’s not a good time to take the pass.”
The man raised his gaze from the fire. Tavalisk had never seen eyes as cold as those: they were ice formed over granite. The stranger stretched half a lip. “But you took it all the same.”
“I had no choice. I need to get home as soon as possible.”
“And where is home?”
Tavalisk felt a slight pain in his head. Somehow the stranger had managed to take control of the conversation. “Home is . . . ” Tavalisk paused, considering. Home wasn’t Silbur anymore, so where was it? Where would he go? Somewhere far away. He and Venesay had once visited Rorn. Tavalisk remembered it well; it was a city burgeoning with new wealth and trade. Its streets teemed with people and its temples were decked in gold. The perfect place to make himself anew. “Rorn,” he
said. “My home is Rorn.”
The man made a minute gesture with his finger, and Tavalisk knew he hadn’t been believed. “Where do you come from?” Tavalisk said, trying to shake off his feeling of unease.
“Leiss, Hanatta. Silbur.”
The last word was spoken with telling emphasis and Tavalisk felt himself blushing. He was saved by the reappearance of the tavern-maid. The girl held a tray full of food just below her bosom. She fussed, smiled, served, and then reluctantly left.
The stranger wiped the froth from his ale. “What business did you have in the north?”
Tavalisk wasn’t used to feeling cowed and he disliked the sensation very much. He cleared his throat. “I am a religious scholar. I was visiting with the great mystic Rapascus.” As he spoke, his confidence grew. It was time to try out his lies. “Unfortunately a terrible tragedy occurred and the great man died. His home and his works were destroyed.”
“Then you have saved me a journey, my friend. For I, too, was to visit Rapascus.”
Tavalisk drew in a quick breath. This was the man whom Rapascus had invited to take his place. The brilliant scholar from Silbur.
“Tavalisk, I believe,” said the stranger.
“And you would be Baralis,” said Tavalisk.
The one called Baralis turned to his dinner and broke both wing bones of his fowl. “Rapascus wrote of you in his letters. He never mentioned you were interested in religious research. But then you and he must have had a lot to talk about, as that was his greatest area of interest, too.”
Tavalisk loosened the collar of his tunic. He suddenly felt rather hot. “Oh, he dabbled in religion, but his true love was mysticism: arcane ceremonies, inexplicable phenomena, sorcery.”
“You are mistaken, my friend,” said Baralis in a light but pointed tone. “In one of the first letters Rapascus ever sent to me, he told of how close he was to completing a reinterpretation of the classic religious texts. Borc was revealed to him in a new but beneficent light, and he had spent years styling that revelation into words.”